An Unseen Clock
by anemille
Summary: Harry sighs for the twentieth time, ignorance is never better than knowledge. Never. All Series 5 characters, pre 5x05.
1. Chapter One : Amira

**Notes: **This story is my first real attempt at a chapter fic, in other words the first where I have actually planned out how I want it to end. This involved a lot of research, particularly Arabic names and meanings. I hope that my information is correct, I apologise if it is not, I am not very well informed on a lot of the subject matter! The story takes place in Series 5, after 5x02 and before 5x05 (preferably with that never happening!).

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Spooks or any of its characters. Also, apart from Thames House and a couple of other locations, all locations in this story are fictional, any resemblance to real places is entirely coincidental (same goes for people, I guess).

Please review, if you enjoy this story (or if you don't, whatever :)). I've worked for a long time on this and would love to continue, particularly if people enjoy it.

* * *

Devastation meets her eyes and, yet again, Jo wonders why she does this job. The sirens and the screams tug at her heart and she stares, immobilised, at the chaos. The shattered glass is something that Jo has seen many times before, and yet it's that she focuses on because she knows if she looks any closer she'll see the true nature of terrorism, a nature soaked in blood. Adam always tells her to detach herself, so that's what she does, her eyes sliding out of focus, chin lowered. In the back of her mind she wonders if she's growing colder, harder. Still she doesn't let the tears fall. 

The bomb went off at 11:24 this morning. A small, enclosed space that was packed with people. One kilogram of Semtex. Malcolm had informed her sombrely that no one could have survived an explosion that size. He was now rambling on about complex chemical processes and ratios of casualties per square metre, but Jo wasn't listening. She didn't need to. It might be childish, but to her seeing was still believing. And all she was seeing was death.

Still she doesn't let the tears fall.

--

Jo sits at her desk and stares blankly at the screen. She's been told that there's nothing she can do until the briefing. She feels vaguely put out: Adam and Ros have disappeared, presumably to beat information out of some asset; Harry is at an emergency meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee; Zaf and Ruth are busy creating a legend for another op, one that she knows nothing about, one that she isn't a part of. Even Malcolm looks busy, sitting at his desk like she is, clicking away ferociously. She wonders why she's never the one doing anything exciting. Why she's always the last one to know.

The pods slide open and Jo comes back to reality, drawn out of her reverie. A flurry of activity erupts around her. Somehow she gets the message. Briefing. Now.

She passes Malcolm's desk as she heads for the meeting room.

Minesweeper Expert Level : 164 seconds : Malcolm

Jo smiles.

--

"All other operations will be put on hold regardless of importance." Harry is tired, and the no-nonsense tone of his voice informs Jo, and everyone else, that these are orders, not suggestions. "If you have loose ends, tie them up in the next few hours, please. Say whatever you have to."

Ruth drags eyes filled with disquiet away from Harry and exchanges a glance with Zaf that is clearly a wordless agreement of his get out clause. Jo feels left out again. She's never had a moment like that. Never been able to communicate without words, without gestures.

"Before we begin I would like to remind you that this is an extremely sensitive time: the terror alert has, understandably, been raised to critical, and there is wide spread panic among the British public. Several of the news stations and websites are near to collapse. Airports and train stations are at a standstill. This is a national emergency. We must remain calm, focused, on task."

"Can we move on now, please?" Ros' eyes roll, she doesn't need to hear this.

Adam stands. Jo gets the feeling that he enjoys these little performances more than he should. There's something in his eyes that betrays his love of performance, of control.

"At 11:24 this morning, a bomb was detonated in Princess Court, Central London. No one has, as yet, claimed responsibility, however, it is unlikely to be the work of a large organisation."

"Could be a splinter group, though." Zaf adds this, somehow managing to not interrupt Adam's flow.

"True. In cases such as these it's normal for someone to claim responsibility. We can therefore expect such a communication in the next few hours."

"_We can expect? _Do you really think that now is the time to base our operation on an assumption?" Ros always makes comments like this, unhelpful but completely reasonable and utterly necessary.

Harry sighs, "We have so little else to go on that all we have is protocol. Nothing remains of the bomb or indeed the location of the blast. All we have is CCTV footage from the surrounding area, but finding our man in amongst it will be like looking for a needle in a haystack, to use the common phrase." He says this without a glint in his eyes. He has no energy for complex idioms today. "Ruth, Jo, Malcolm, you will trawl through it looking for suspicious activity, matching suspects against our database. Zaf, I believe you have a veritable squad of assets and sources within the extremist community?"

Zaf has no time to say anything. Ruth has, in her own quiet way interrupted. Unusual, Jo thinks. But then this is an unusual day.

"How do we know that the culprits are Muslim extremists? That assumption is made to quickly nowadays."

Jo likes Ruth. She is considerate and gentle, concerned about equality for all people, even terrorists.

Harry grimaces. "We don't know anything. But we have to start somewhere, so we pick the most likely threats, check those out first. If they concede nothing, we'll move on." He clearly feels that this is enough of an answer and turns pointedly back to Zaf.

Zaf inclines his head, "I have a couple of possible leads, yes."

"Good. Adam, Ros, do what you can for now, talk to any sources that might be useful, get on to GCHQ and re-check all the recent chatter."

"And if nothing turns up?" Adam is, for once, uncertain.

"Then all we can hope for is some kind of communication from the perpetrators. And keep the terror alert up, of course."

Harry sighs again. Ruth's eyes flood with concern.

"I have to go. I have a meeting with Juliet."

Half smiles flicker across all the faces in the room before grim reality takes over. This is not the time for smiling.

--

Zaf doesn't enjoy this. He doesn't get his kicks from intimidating assets. He's not sure he'd like himself very much if he did. He picks up his phone and dials a familiar number, fingers flying over the keys without any thought behind the action. This is the most promising asset. The only one that he is hopeful about.

"Ali? Tariq." Zaf speaks as soon as his source picks up the phone. He doesn't stop for confirmation. He has to move quickly. "We need to meet. Today. Now. The usual place. Half an hour."

Zaf ends the call quickly without fuss or flourish. He feels that in these troubled times eloquence can be sacrificed for results.

--

Ros puts down the phone and rubs her temples, shutting her eyes for a moment. Racing against time, gun at her head, 10 seconds until the bomb goes off with only minutes to save the damsel in distress: that's what she likes. Not this monotony, the uncertainty, the inability to help.

_Give me something I can fight._

She stalks over to the coffee machine, for her money worth far more than the complicated computer systems and databases, the lasers and tracers and triggers. The bitter, black liquid is all that gets her through the day. Well, that and adrenalin. She slots in the filter, presses the button.

Adam comes up behind her, silently and when he talks it's as if he's expecting her to jump in surprise.

"Bored?"

Ros doesn't move a muscle. Doesn't turn around. She knew he was there.

"Somewhat."

"You know it's likely they'll attack again? Harry doesn't want to say it but it was a small target. Plenty of casualties, superficial damage, yes. But they made no political statement. Their target didn't betray their aims. We may as well be blind."

Ros considers this before replying, a patronising edge in her voice barely showing through.

"We can't always have it easy. If they'd attacked the Houses of Parliament then we would have been sure of their intentions, but they didn't, so we can't be."

Adam selects another filter with precision. The tinge of superiority in her voice does not escaped him, tired as he may be. Not that he minds. In a slightly twisted way he likes it.

"How did this get under our radar? And not just ours, but all intelligence organisations?"

"Unless they're hiding something from us. The Americans, the Russians… I wouldn't put it past them."

"That would be a whole different ball game. Then they'd be keeping it to themselves for their own gain. That never ends well."

The uncomfortable thought hangs oddly in the air between them. Ros dismisses it as something to be considered later. She thinks that right now the most important thing is to make some sense of what they know, rather than what they don't.

--

Harry meets Juliet in a smart government office. They don't meet on the bridge anymore, not by the river. Not when mobility is an issue. He swallows his anger: Juliet was a great agent, she could have been so much more. He swallows again. Anger tastes bitter.

"Do you think they'll attack again?" It's not knowledge she's seeking, it's a test of his methods.

"It's highly likely, but we're still waiting for communication."

"Trawling through footage, documents, records… there's something I don't miss." She sounds confident but her voice almost betrays that actually she misses involvement on an operational level very much.

"It's not exactly thrilling. Still if the alternative is bomb blasts, I'm happy to take paperwork."

A smile passes between them. Harry thinks how different it could have been.

The meeting is short, with no breakthroughs. It doesn't feel like time well spent.

--

Underneath an old overpass, Zaf waits for his asset. It's cold now, and Zaf hopes Ali arrives soon. He has no desire to stay here any longer than is necessary.

Zaf turns slowly, surveying the immediate area: an old housing estate, scarred with graffiti. From behind a pillar his source emerges, navy blue hooded top pulled tight over his head.

"Tariq." He speaks with a low, tired voice. Zaf almost smiles. Clearly the security services are not the only ones who are busy.

"How are you?" Zaf respects the formalities.

"Not great. But that's hardly what you're here to talk about, is it?"

"That depends on whether you're state of mind is caused by anything that I might be interested in."

"And what might that be?"

"A bomb that went off in London this morning. Bomber got in under the radar and hasn't shown any sign or motive or intention, other than a pile of dead people, of course." Zaf doesn't enjoy talking about victims of terrorism in such a cavalier way, but it is what his asset understands.

"So you think that the bomber is home-grown?"

"We are investigating that possibility, yes." Zaf is deliberately vague. He trusts Ali's information, but that's about it.

"I don't know anyone who has been directly involved planning any kind of attack…"

"But?"

"But we have one member, Talal Omar, who has a lot of contact with other groups. He has many friends that we don't know about."

"Anything in particular that links him to the attack?" Zaf wishes Ali would just get to the point.

"He's been making calls to someone and talking about an 'act of great vengeance'."

"Vengeance?"

"There was nothing more specific. He persistently makes these calls, apparently to the same person every time."

"Nothing more?"

"He hasn't had time or opportunity to play a larger role. We are relatively strict as to the activities of members."

"Is leaking information to MI5 a common aim of the group, or is it a perk for senior members only?" Zaf allows himself the joke, he doesn't get the chance very often.

His asset replies only with a sharp look. Understanding that the conversation is over he turns and, always surveying the area, walks off, disappearing behind the concrete, back into his underground world.

--

"This is going to take forever."

Malcolm agrees heartily with this comment. Reams of CCTV footage have arrived to be analysed, with only a small chance that anything good will come of their searching. It daunts him. It wouldn't have daunted Colin.

Colin is a common image in Malcolm's mind these days. He doesn't think that his friend will ever let him be. He's not sure he wants him to. Malcolm wonders sometimes if he idolises Colin. He decides he doesn't care.

Ruth and Jo are buried in their work, and Malcolm turns back to the screen in front of him. The footage flickers, the computer whirring away, checking faces against an enormous list of known terror suspects on the MI5 database.

It's midwinter and dusk is settling in. The greys are becoming darker and the people hurrying past Thames House aren't dawdling in the cold. Malcolm focuses on his work. He thinks that tonight will be another long night.

--

Zaf emerges from the pods, ready to share the sliver of information gleaned from his contact. His mouth opens as his colleagues look round, but a beep from the fax machine interrupts his moment.

Ruth runs to get it and at the look on her face, Zaf sees instantly that she now has more to offer than he does.

"It is a communication from the bomber! Sent via GCHQ."

Harry's face contorts. Zaf guesses that he's torn between relief that they have something to work with and dread of what the message contains, of what it means.

"_Five roses torn from the soil, only one can rest with angels. Fear not, the rest will follow. Amira is only the first. Evil is rewarded with like evil, yet in evil you will be redeemed."_

Silence follows Ruth's shaky reading of the text. Harry sits down, resting his head in his hands.

"Okay. Go through it again."

--

Ruth taps away at the keyboard, glad to have found some real purpose. She's looking up the name Zaf's contact has given them, Talal Omar. As expected he appears in MI5's database. Nothing stands out, he's a worker bee in a couple of anti-American, anti-western groups, with little involvement in serious criminal activity. Ruth decides that Omar himself is not worth further investigation, but that any and all of his contacts are. She brings up the list of known affiliates and checks the first one. There are over fifty, Omar has worked for plenty of people, and she knows that she'll be here a while. It doesn't bother her. She has always preferred logical, incessant research work to action. She lets other people deal with that. She knows her own strengths.

--

"Surely we should be focusing on the part that threatened five more attacks?" Ros is irritable because they've spent ten minutes discussing Amira, and who or what it might be. "From the tone of the note it seems perfectly obvious that Amira is a person whose death was, for want of a better term, 'avenged' by the attack. Does that not seem probable?"

The gazes that meet hers are ones of silent, disgruntled agreement. Ros smiles on the inside. She likes being right. She also knows why they avoided initially agreeing on the obvious point. They know nothing else about the future attacks; not the times or the places. And she says as much.

"We're hardly better off than we were before, in fact it could be argued that we're worse off. We can be certain that there will be more attacks, but we can't say where or when."

"We're blind and deaf." Adam refers to their conversation from earlier. It doesn't escape Ros' notice.

"Or even who's behind it."

"And dumb." Adam doesn't drop the joke. Ros thinks he should.

"We'll just have to hope Zaf's source leads us somewhere." Jo is always hopeful, the eternal optimist.

"Somewhere other than a morgue." Harry makes an uncharacteristically morbid comment. Ros approves, it's something that she would have liked to have said herself.

--

Malcolm sits beside Ruth and they continue to scroll through Omar's contacts. Zahir Sam. Husam Qasim. Ammar Khalil. Abdul-Hasib Amin.

"We looking for someone who has lost family members, friends, colleagues…" Malcolm trails off with the realisation that most terrorists have lost someone. A little like most intelligence officers. The irony of the similarity is not lost on him.

"Maybe we should be looking for wives, sisters, even daughters. After all the message said _five roses_, if I'm not wrong that a term more common in the description of women."

Malcolm smiles at Ruth's point, as if trying to imagine a situation in which he might call another man a 'rose'. Malcolm doesn't think he'd go that far.

"The message says that _in evil you will be redeemed _does that mean he's trying to help us?" Ruth once again displays her ability to search for the best in people.

"I don't think so." Malcolm is less positive. He sees it as more realistic. "The use of _will_ implies force. He is certain that his acts of evil will redeem us, a forced redemption is worth nothing. He's giving us an order."

"That we aren't going to follow?"

"I shouldn't think so. The death of five others, or whatever we've done, does not amount to hundreds of British casualties. His mind is twisted, Ruth. He doesn't really want us to be redeemed, he wants blood." Malcolm wonders where this morose attitude has sprung from. He wishes he could lose it, leave it behind, but after Colin, he's not sure he can.

Ruth remembers Harry's morbid joke from earlier. She thinks that troubled times lead to troubled minds. She hopes they're over soon.

--

Adam watches the television screen and wishes that the spy inside him would let him turn it off. The newsreader is relaying details of the number of casualties and Adam feels sick. Amira must have been special for her death to justify those of countless others. Men, women, children… He feels glad for once that Wes has gone to boarding school. He sometimes regrets the distance between himself and his son. But it's moments like these that lead him to believe that it's for the best. Wes' old school was barely a mile from Princess Court. He hopes that the mile was enough for Wes' classmates.

--

Jo's heart is thumping as she comes across something in the files. Something that after hours of research might actually be useful.

She gets up and crosses the Grid, heading for Adam rather than Ros. She doesn't dislike Ros, secretly she admires her a great deal. She just needs a friendlier face right now.

"Adam?"

Adam looks up, but says nothing.

"I think I might have found something." Again he says nothing, so she continues, trying to sound confident. "This man, Sayyid Hadad, crops up a couple of times in our database, nothing particularly interesting or incriminating, but he also shows up on a couple of websites, both extremist and regular Islamic or Arab sites. He lost all five of his sisters in 2003…" For the first time Jo is cut off by Adam.

"All at once?"

"No. That's what makes him interesting to the Arab press, five women dead in five separate attacks or accidents during the invasion and subsequent occupation of Iraq."

"Well, that's interesting. We'll have to look into it. Ask Ruth to go through it with you."

He turns back to his desk to continue his own research, but Jo puts out a hand to stop him. She has saved the best for last.

"One of them was called Amira."

--

Harry enjoys the cool breeze on his face as he walks back to Thames House. This meeting with Juliet had been more productive than the last one, for that he was glad.

He feels a little better that progress is finally being made, although he knows that somewhere an unseen clock is ticking, counting down the minutes until the next attack. It could be five, it could be fifty thousand. Harry sighs for the twentieth time, ignorance is never better than knowledge. Never.

_Fear not, the rest will follow._


	2. Chapter Two : Rawiya

Thank you to all those who reviewed Chapter One, your lovely comments made my day! I hope that you enjoy the second installment.

* * *

"Okay. Five girls, five bombs. How do we even begin to deal with this?" 

Ruth is starting to dread these meetings. It's only been 16 hours since the first bomb was detonated but Ruth knows that they haven't got very far. And she knows that in this game time is everything. Every second that goes by is a second closer to the next explosion. And the uncertainty is killing her.

Even so, she is the first to contribute. She feels more comfortable in the realms research than action.

"Research on Hadad hasn't got us very far, unfortunately, except that he is distraught at the deaths of his five sisters at the hands of western forces in Iraq. There are no pictures or details in any of his interviews, except for his name. We have no idea of his whereabouts now, or his past activities. Records in Iraq are incomplete and poorly organised. We have been given nothing from their police and intelligence services that will be any use." Ruth knows that they hadn't expected any decent information to arrive from Iraq. She thinks that the situation there is disgusting. She pauses for breath before continuing, "We don't know who his suppliers or contacts are, apart of course from Talal Omar."

At the appearance of despondent looks on every face in the room, Ruth ploughs on with the better news. "However, research into the sisters had yielded a little more information."

"Even so, can we be sure that Hadad is behind this?" Ros is doubtful.

"We have nothing else to go on. And it fits: the five girls, revenge, Amira… I don't believe in coincidences." Adam adds this as an afterthought, said perhaps more to convince himself, than anyone else.

"So Ruth, what _do_ we know?" Harry draws attention back to Ruth. She knows that they have to get moving on this.

"Amira Hadad is on the list of those who died in a raid on a government building in central Baghdad by Allied Forces in late March, 2003, barely a week into the war."

"So we assume that whoever this Hadad is, he has avenged the death of his sister?"

"And plans on doing the same for the other four. Do we know anything about them?"

"A search on Hadad brings up thousands of results, it's a common name. However, we can be fairly certain about the identities of two of the sisters because they are mentioned by name in interviews given by Hadad to small Iraqi and Arabic newspapers in the wake of the attacks that they were killed in. Arshia Hadad was 23 and killed in November of 2003 when Allied Forces bombed an urban area of Basra, and Kayla Hadad, age unknown, killed in May, when an Iraqi rebel group attacked British controlled police station in Baghdad."

"But then why punish us, at least for Kayla's death? She died at the hands of home-grown rebels, not British forces." Jo is innocently, unwittingly the child again. She doesn't yet understand the true motives and methods of terrorists.

"Because the invasion of Iraq by the West was the spark that ignited the tempers of the militants and radicals. Any problem in Iraq is seen as the West's fault, whether justified or not." Harry doesn't sound angry or impatient, but he makes it very clear that he won't explain further.

"This doesn't help us to determine when or where the next attack might be." Ros, yet again, is unhelpfully accurate in her assessment of their situation.

"So we look closer." Harry is defiant; it's what makes him a good leader. "There must be some clues, however small. This man has a method. We just can't see it."

"Alright. So we go back… Zaf go and visit your contact again, wring him out for everything he knows. Everyone else back to the computers; check the note again, check names and dates, run Hadad through every filter, every database… hell, every search engine there is. We're missing something. And I want to know what it is." Adam's word is final.

Ruth rises from her chair and heads for her computer. She smiles at Malcolm. She knows that secretly he enjoys a challenge such as this. She's not sure that she does because she can't forget about the consequences of a single wrong move. She's not sure that she can enjoy this when hundreds of British lives hang in the balance.

--

He can't remember the last time that he felt like this. The inky black of night had enveloped the estate long ago. He had forgotten that the sunsets do not last as long in this country. This cold, murderous country.

As he walks around the flat surveying the depravation he can think of nothing good about this place. Nothing except the glorious blood that had been spilled in honour of his sister, Amira. Blood understands only blood. The people who had died for her were being branded 'victims' by the disgustingly sympathetic British press. He thinks that they should have been joyous in their deaths: dying for a true cause, a higher purpose, is the ultimate sacrifice, the ultimate honour. They should have been martyrs.

The flat is gloomy even with the lights on. The bulbs flicker, and for a moment the devices on the table are lost in darkness.

He thinks of angels and roses and martyrs and blood. He finds relief in the fact that another of his angels will find solace and eternal rest soon.

2 hours, 42 minutes and 37 seconds to be exact.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

--

Zaf enjoys this visit to asset even less than the last one. A meeting with out appointment can spook assets; it can cause more serious damage too. Zaf doesn't like to think about that.

It's early in the morning, but that doesn't stop extremist activity. He watches his mark walk get out of a car, an old one with peeling paint and dirty glass. Zaf thinks that clearly terrorism doesn't pay well. Then again, these people are in it for belief or honour. Emotion. Misplaced, but strong and vibrant all the same.

He tails his asset for a few minutes, making sure that no one else is around. As they turn a corner into a deserted street, Zaf makes his move.

"Ali."

His asset turns, silently, managing to look both nervous and alert. Zaf does not underestimate this man. His kind are, after all, capable of great violence.

"What do you want?" Ali's tone is cautious, so low he sounds hoarse.

"Information. On Talal Omar."

"I've told you all I know."

"And I don't believe you."

Zaf knows that his asset won't elaborate further in this state, but part of him enjoys the mental games.

"Ali, please. Innocent people will die. Hundreds of British men, women and children."

"You forget my nature!" Ali spits this, as though disgusted. "I believe in extremist aims. You forget, all of you, that just because I have been corrupted by the intelligence services doesn't mean that my sympathies lie with you."

"When I turned you…" Zaf gets no further.

"Turned… such an ugly, clinical expression. I was forced into working for you, I saw no other way. But do not for one second doubt where my inner sympathies lie. I believe in vengeance!"

Zaf worries now. Clearly, Ali is not quite as reliable an asset as he had always thought.

"Please. Anything you know, Ali. The fact that I'm here, that I didn't arrange it beforehand… that should tell you something. It should tell you that I'm here because we're desperate. We have nothing to go on. Give us a chance."

He wasn't being entirely truthful. They did have some information, and hopefully by now they would have more, but he needed anything Ali could give him.

"When Omar calls his contact they often talk about women."

"Women?" Zaf pretends not to understand that he means Hadad's sisters.

"You know two legs, two arms, pretty face. Hopefully more in the front than the male of species."

"A little more in the behind as well." Zaf knows he's being crude, but he needs to keep Ali on side.

"Whatever your taste."

Zaf steers the conversation back to Talal Omar. He doesn't like this particular direction.

"What about Omar?"

"He always mentions girls' names. First it was always Amira."

Zaf smiles.

"More recently Rawiya."

"What about them?"

"I don't know."

"Anything else?"

"No."

Zaf sense that this is the end of the conversation. He turns to leave.

"Tariq?"

Zaf turns, not having to consciously remember his other identity.

"The calls have become more frequent in the past few hours."

"Thank you."

Zaf is truly, honestly grateful.

"I don't need your thanks." He turns and leaves, retreats into the darkness. Zaf looks at his watch. 4:33am.

Zaf thinks that he should be paid more for this.

--

Ros prefers action to research. She would rather be out there, armed and dangerous, so to speak, and giving it all she's got. But she's stuck here looking through folders, flicking through web pages. It's made all the worse by the fact that Malcolm actually appears to be enjoying himself.

"24th May 2003, a bomb explodes at 3:14pm outside a police station in Baghdad. Quite a civilised bomb, actually, not your average bag of nails and putty."

"No need to sound so gleeful, Malcolm."

Malcolm raises his eyebrows a little but doesn't answer. Ros smiles a little, after years of being teased she finds that she enjoys doing it as an adult. She's not sure that anyone she knows now, in this warped security services life, would ever believe that she was the one pressed against the railings at school, the one who cowered in the toilets.

_You used to say I was scared of everything._

And with good reason.

But she forgets that life now, she's stronger. Only in the back of her mind does she keep the thought that maybe she likes the action because it allows her to right every wrong that was ever done to her. Little Rosalind, two plaits and patent shoes.

Malcolm is still talking.

"…12th November, same year, 9:04pm."

"Hmm…" Ros isn't listening and looks at her watch to see that the time is 4:46am, and then looks up, "Malcolm?"

"Yes?"

"What time did Amira Hadad die?" Ros' heart is thumping; it could be something or nothing. She knows what she'd like to hear. It's up to Malcolm to say it.

Poor Malcolm doesn't know he's under such pressure. He's too busy trying to breach the CIA mainframe without being caught. It's not that he would mind asking their overseas cousins for the information, it was just quicker, and a little more satisfying, to break in.

"March 27th…"

"The time, Malcolm. Not the date!"

"I'm getting there… Here it is on the CIA system. The raid was scheduled for 11:24am on…"

He doesn't get any further.

"11:24. The time that the first bomb exploded."

--

He doesn't think about the lives that are about to be lost as though they mean anything. The man he was before would have felt sorrow at their screaming faces. The man his is now is corrupted by the cruel, twisted influence of war. And he despises their blindly ignorant faces.

He looks away from the papers strewn across the table, and out of the windows, rejoicing in the darkness.

"Not long now, dear sister."

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

--

"Do we assume that the rest of the attacks will follow this pattern?"

"Normally we would assume nothing, right now we have no choice. We can't wait for another attack to confirm our suspicions, we have to get working on this."

Electricity is buzzing in the air.

"Do we know when the other girls died?"

"They won't be too hard to find; the CIA records turn out to be gloriously detailed." Malcolm always did find too much joy in records and statistics. Harry doesn't mind. He likes Malcolm for it, he likes that he's not an action hero.

"Even so this gives us little clue about where the attacks will be. We can hardly protect the whole of London, every day of the week at five specific times until we've foiled all of this madman's plans."

"Then we need to think again. We must be missing something. All terrorists, all murders… hell, all burglars have a method. We need to find out his. We know his motives, but we need his method."

A stony silence greets Harry's words. They've been trying for hours, running on large amounts of black coffee and the adrenalin that seeps into the system after long periods of time without sleep.

Jo breaks the silence.

"Is Zaf back yet?"

"No."

"Err, actually yes." Zaf stands in the doorway, looking as though he ran through Thames House to get here. "Did I arrive on cue?" Zaf is always the one to joke, but for once he is outdone.

"You should have been an actor. Shakespeare, Eastenders… Celebrity Big Brother…" Ros is as sharp as ever.

"I had no idea you were a fan of reality TV, Ros." Zaf isn't willing to let her have the final word. A slightly sarcastic smile passes between them. Harry thinks it would be almost amusing if they weren't trying to deal with a national crisis.

"Aside from acquiring a funny bone, did you gain anything else from your little excursion?" He pulls the focus back to the impending doom, but not without his own stab at humour.

"It seems that the next attack will take revenge for the death of Hadad's sister, Rawiya. He also says that the calls to Hadad have become more frequent in the last few hours."

"So we can expect imminent attack?"

The silence gives Harry a clearer answer than any words that could be spoken aloud.

--

Adam stares out at the city of London and decides that nothing could ever be worth the destruction of so many lives. He was a little torn before; he had remembered how he had felt after Fiona… after Danny and Colin. He had remembered how grief could affect you; twist and pull at your insides until you didn't know who you were or what you were you were capable of.

But now he sees the truth before him with prefect clarity. Spilling blood to avenge that already spilt was never justifiable.

He thinks about his grief a little longer, although he knows it is unwise to linger in the past when the present is so uncertain. The sun hasn't risen yet and it's cold. Winter has swallowed the vibrancy of the city, but it has not tainted the life that thrives within it.

Adam hopes that the life, and with it the vivacity, of the city won't be extinguished for good because of the actions of a desperate man.

--

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

And suddenly everything in sight is blazing. The fires burn strong and fierce in the wake of the destruction. As though the life that prospered inside the burnt out carcasses that litter the pavement has become free to breathe in the flames.

He smiles softly, turns and vanishes amongst the chaos. It wouldn't do to be caught lingering here.

--

"What the hell do we do, Harry, the phone's ringing off the hook?"

In the wake of the blast Ruth thinks that she prefers the uncertainty.

"Just… keep the press at bay, Ruth. The ones that weren't destroyed in a madman's quest for vengeance." Ruth shudders a little. The bomb had gone of at the headquarters of the London Times, the biggest broadsheet in the city. The final body count isn't in yet and Ruth dreads the moment that the figure is released. She knows that the public are beginning to despair. She knows that it won't be long before the masses are calling for the government and the security services to take action, calling for resignations. This hasn't been a good day. Two blasts, countless innocent people dead.

She wonders if any of them will survive this onslaught. Figuratively and literally.

After a few minutes of silence Harry speaks, "I have to go; it's the second emergency meeting of the JIC in 24 hours, the Home Secretary will be delighted at being dragged from his bed at this hour."

Harry looks even more tired than he did yesterday. Ruth is quite sure that the stress isn't good for him. She knows that it isn't doing any good for anyone, but somehow she cares a little more about Harry's state of mind. She thinks for a moment of what could be and then shakes the images from her mind. This is not the time for fantasy.

--

As the fax from the bomber comes in, Jo feels her stomach drop. She doesn't expect that it will give anything away, she doesn't expect much at all. What she does expect is the panic stirring inside her to be shaken a little more.

Ros is the one who reads the message. She has an astonishing ability to keep her voice from shaking. Jo knows that it's not a lack of emotion, it all there in Ros' eyes.

"_Another can rest now, restored to her true throne. She has been honoured with blood, revenge on those who looked her in the eye and saw only death. Three remain, avenged they shall be."_

"Does the 'throne' have any significance?" Jo feels that they should explore every avenue.

"We'll look into it… but it sounds a little more like depressive, extremist poetry."

"Flamboyant terrorists, whatever next?"

The rhetorical question seems to revolve uncomfortably in the air. Jo thinks she already knows what will come next. And she thinks that when it does it won't be pretty. Tales of roses and princesses are all very well, but in today's climate they are suitable only for little girls and fantasists.

--

Zaf is relieved to get away from the Grid. He walks quickly, with Jo at his side. They were told to return home, get some sleep. In the immediate aftermath there is always little that can be done and too many people around to do it. It was decided that the team should sleep in shifts. Yes, Zaf is relieved.

The sun is just beginning to peak above the skyline. It isn't blood red like an African sunset and Zaf is thankful that he can avoid the metaphor.

They arrive and Jo spends a moment searching for the key. She pulls out a chain and a small teddy bear hangs from the end. It's pink. Zaf can't help but grin every time he sees it. Jo notices his smile and returns it. She doesn't give in to teasing anymore.

They enter without speaking and Zaf flicks the light on. Jo reaches for a glass tumbler. She turns the tap on, fills the glass and drains it. It's been an immeasurably long day.

"It's odd… first a seemingly random street, then the headquarters of a prominent London newspaper. If this attack had happened first we would have jumped to conclusions about political motives. The attacks don't fit."

"Maybe they do, we just can't see the pattern." It's an uncomfortable thought and Zaf feels uncomfortable saying it. After a few minutes he realises that time is too short to ponder terrorist motives. They should be sleeping. He voices this thought.

"Come on, we should get some rest."

Jo looks at him for a second, an unreadable expression in her eyes. She looks like she is about to say something and is working up the nerve.

"Stay with me."

Zaf isn't quite sure what she means.

"I'll be right here."

"No. Stay with me."

He searches her eyes, looking for her meaning. She seems to realise the conclusions that he is jumping to, his expression indicating he is already mid-flight.

"Not… not like that. Just… as my friend."

He nods, realisation dawning. Now is the time to rejoice in friendship, in the warmth that it brings. He follows her up the stairs, gives her a few minutes to wash and change. They lie on the bed side by side, not touching, not speaking. Comfortable in their closeness. As sleep claims him, Zaf is overwhelmingly glad of the company.

--

"The CCTV footage has arrived. Miraculously two of the four cameras that watch the offices survived the blast."

Malcolm's news is welcome to every person in the room.

At her desk Ros puts the phone down. "The police think that this one was a suicide attack. They've found a body, blown to pieces. Nothing new in a bomb blast but when the pieces included plastic and putty, you have to wonder."

"This is different. As far as we know the bomb was planted before hand in Princess Court."

"Maybe he's trying to shake us up."

"He's succeeding." Adam is downbeat.

"Is it likely that we can get an ID on the body?"

"Who knows, the police are overstretched as it is. I doubt they'll be able to get anything done in the time frame we have."

"And we know nothing about Hadad."

Harry is still out at his meeting. Adam had contacted him about the new note. He had left a message that they should continue on, do what they can. Ros decides on the next course of action. She gives her orders without hesitation, she has never minded being the centre of attention.

"Lets get going on the camera footage; look for Omar, or anyone else who appears on our database. It's all we've got."

Ruth and Malcolm head for their computers. Adam catches Ros' elbow.

"We can expect him to attack again shortly. It appears that his time frame is very small, and that means that ours is rapidly diminishing."

"The blast went off at 5.58, the time that a petrol bomb was launched at British forces in a suburb of Baghdad on the 2nd of April, 2003. It missed the soldiers, got sixteen Iraqi civilians instead. They were never identified, but after that there is no record of a Rawiya Hadad. So yes, it appears that he's attacking us at the time we attacked him, or parts of his precious bloodline at any rate." Ros knows that she sounds bitter. After so many deaths on British soil she thinks she thinks it's understandable.

"Then we can assume that the attacks will follow in chronological order, March came first, then April. We can construct an expected pattern of attack."

"More assumptions. I would prefer to work with concrete evidence."

"We don't have it." Adam doesn't sound angry, a little frustrated perhaps, but Ros knows that irritation has reared its ugly head, not as a result of her doubt, but as a result of his feeling helpless. She understands, she feels it too. They still don't know where the next attacks will be and without this information they have no hope of preventing the terrorists from winning. Ros doesn't like losing.

She sighs, dropping her chin to her chest. Adam draws her gaze back up to his, his fingers at her cheek.

"You look exhausted."

A softer expression crosses her features.

"Charming. You, as always, are the epitome of alertness and charisma." She snaps back to her usual sarcastic self. A smile passes between them. She turns, and walks to her desk. They have work to do, after all.

--

Ruth has been staring at the screen in front of her for longer than she'd like. It's a surprise when the system starts to bleep and flash, signifying a match.

"Adam! We've got a match. A man who didn't get out before the blast. A man in a rather large, conspicuous jacket… Ali Mahmad, 27… MI5 asset?"

Realisation dawn on Adam's face and Ruth feels her insides squirm.

When he speaks it is in a small voice, one of disbelief.

"Zaf's asset… but he gave us intelligence, accurate intelligence!"

There is no further comment and the Grid is silent. Ruth feels faintly sick. She doesn't understand. She feels swamped by this operation, as it grows more complex, more twisted. She feels suffocated. She doesn't know how they are going to get through this.

_Three remain, avenged they shall be._


	3. Chapter Three : Kayla

Thank you, again, for all your wonderful reviews. I'm really grateful that you take the time to tell me what you think. I hope that you enjoy this third chapter.

**Further Disclaimer : **I do not own the characters of Peter Pan (who are vaguely referenced in this chapter), just as I do not own the characters from Spooks.

* * *

Zaf feels guilty. Even though he knows he shouldn't. Ali was his asset. He had begun to feel the cracks in the relationship. How had he not noticed this?

"It's not your fault, you know."

He's heard it a million times already, Adam, Harry… even Ros. It feels a little better coming from Jo.

"You're not the bomber. You didn't kill those people. And he gave us good intelligence…"

Silence settles for a moment.

"…I would have believed him too."

Zaf considers this as Jo turns away, a sympathetic expression still etched across her features. He thinks that maybe that's the problem, she's inexperienced and she honestly would have believed him. Zaf knows that he doesn't have that excuse anymore. Innocence deserted him a long time ago.

He sits down and stares straight ahead, eyes unfocused, unsmiling. He thinks about Ali and how he must have felt. Traitorous, proud, brave, frightened… a whole mix of uncomfortable feelings. Zaf finds little relief in the fact that however bad he feels, Ali must have felt worse.

A shiver runs down Zaf's spine as the pods whirr open. He looks up to see a grim face. Ros has been to see the victims, the carcasses left behind in the wake of mass destruction. Her unease is apparent in her eyes, as well as what Zaf suspects is annoyance: she found nothing new. She crosses them room and bends down to talk to Adam. unable to shake the look of someone who's seen too much death from her eyes.

In a vain effort to forget his guilt, Zaf can only think of one thing.

It's lucky that Malcolm still has his contact at the mortuary.

--

There has been little time to agonize over the double-crossings of Zaf's asset. Adam doesn't think it matters right now. The service will, no doubt, demand written reports and testimony from all involved. He sighs; men in higher places always want documented evidence, evidence that takes hours of valuable time to assemble. Right now, it's far more important that they find out everything they can on this man, tearing his life apart for any indication of what might happen next. Because, as the voice is the back of Adam's mind won't let him forget, they know very little. Two bombs have already exploded in Central London and the public are screaming for action. Yet, there's nothing they can do without knowing the target of the next attack. For the hundredth time Adam is angry, angry that they can't spot the pattern, the connection. He's never been in this situation. Never been virtually helpless before.

--

"Amira, 11:24am, Princess Court. Rawiya, 5:58am, The London Times HQ. Three attacks remain, Kayla, Arshia and another unknown…"

"We still don't know the identity of the fifth sister?" Harry is incredulous. All the resources, all the informants that MI5 have, and they still don't know who the last sister is.

"We're expecting an ID from the Iraqi government within the hour. The excuse for their slowness is, apparently, that 'locating files in a war zone can be difficult', but I rather think that perhaps they aren't troubling themselves too much. An eye for an eye after all." Zaf seems to have lost some of usual exuberance. Harry isn't surprised.

"Nevertheless, they have confirmed that the birth records have been located and will be faxed over shortly." Ruth is quick to reinstate hope and Harry smiles at her, he's grateful for the way she copes with these things.

"Do we know anything more about the other two girls?"

"Not really. We know that Kayla died before Arshia; however, as we don't yet know the identity of the remaining sister we can't really build up a picture of the order of attack. Our best guess would be to look into Kayla Hadad, but there's no way we can be sure."

"We can't allow another attack to be executed successfully. Already the public are screaming for blood, for revenge… for anything really. The government is starting to crumble under the pressure, even the media have found it difficult to deal with, websites of all major newspapers and television stations are close to collapse. We, ourselves, are stretched to breaking point, other sections are even drafting in MI6 and, in some cases, CIA operatives."

A slight smirk echoes around the room. None of them really know why they have such a rivalry with MI6, but it's always fun to make the jokes.

"We're not, are we? Adam will either hate him, be a childhood friend of his, or try to recruit him. Possibly all three." Zaf's humour is real, if a little blacker than before.

A further smile. Even from Adam. Harry has always thought that Adam's recruiting policy was a little odd, but then it's worked alright so far.

"No, we may be stretched, but until things become diabolical we won't be signing up any of our friends from across the river."

When no one says anything in response, Harry picks up the serious side of the situation again.

"I say that our best bet is to find Talal Omar and tail him until he leads us to the mastermind behind the attacks."

"You don't want to bring him in?"

"No. It'll spook him, and probably alert Hadad, and anyone else involved in the attacks, to the fact that we're onto him."

"Don't you think it's weird that Zaf's asset gave us accurate intelligence? I mean he didn't give us enough to find out anything major, but enough to keep us going. What was his motive?" Jo is asking questions again. Harry knows that it's necessary; it's how people learn. He just wishes that she would keep quiet for now.

"I don't know." Harry seems almost resigned to failure, an unusual state of mind for him, and he knows it. "But we don't even know the methods of our bomber, yet. I suggest we work on that first and worry about Mahmad later."

The group dissipate. Harry sits for a moment, attempting to make some sense of the turmoil inside his head. Still he finds no answers and rises from his chair. He has work to do.

--

Jo isn't sure that she wants to be here. She's watching for Omar, sitting in a car on the estate where Zaf's asset could most frequently be found. The car isn't the usual security services Lexus, but it's still a little nicer than any other vehicle she can see. She can't help feeling like she sticks out a little too much. Spooks aren't supposed to stick out, they're supposed to blend in. Jo's not sure that she likes the term 'spook'. She thinks that it's demeaning, after all they save lives, they save democracy. She doesn't like the idea that no one can ever know the truth, they will never be recognised or honoured for their achievements.

Omar finally emerges from the door of a third floor flat, hood pulled down over his face. Even so, he is recognisable from the photograph that Ruth found on their database. Dark skin, prominent nose, taller than average, muscular build. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

"Control, this is Delta Three, eyeball on target. Leaving estate on foot, heading north."

"Roger that, Delta Three. Maintain watch."

Jo turns the ignition key and releases the handbrake. She drives for only a few hundred metres before stopping and getting out of the car. She walks slowly to start with; protocol dictates that she must look like she doesn't have a care in the world. A tricky feat when the security of the nation rests on your shoulders.

She follows him for about half a mile. He turns off into another estate, graffiti scarring the walls with crass, vulgar messages. He enters a flat, not unlike the one he left half an hour ago.

"Eyeball on target entering Number 112, a second floor flat on the Marshall Estate."

"Roger that, Delta Three. Maintain watch."

Jo sighs at the tediousness of protocol. She thinks that sometimes this job isn't as exciting as the media would have you believe.

--

"Jo's called in with the suspected location of Hadad. It's a flat on the Marshall Estate, Number 112."

"I'll look into it."

Adam turns to walk away, but Ruth stops him. Something's been nagging at her mind all morning, ever since the last bomb went off.

"Adam… we still haven't received information on the last sister. If Kayla was the next sister to be killed then we can expect an attack at 3:14pm this afternoon. We don't have time for mistakes or false leads. In any case, if the unknown sister was the next to die we could be facing an even earlier attack. How do we deal with this?"

"Omar is all we've got."

"Why? Why can't we see his method? We've checked everything: times, dates, places. Nothing we cross-reference brings up anything." Ruth is beginning to sound desperate. She knows that desperation is not useful or attractive, but they're running out of time and options. The clock is ticking, and as the sand drains away they become ever closer to having another mountain of dead civilians to deal with.

"We just have to keep going. Malcolm and Ros are checking everything again." Adam pauses for a moment. Ruth knows that he can think of nothing uplifting to say. He settles on an order. She supposes that it makes him feel better. "I need you to find out who owns or rents this flat, Ruth."

"Right. On it." She may be tired and nervous, but she's still damn good at her job. She follows the order without comment. An order is all she needs. Normality restored.

--

Ros is irritated. She's not having any luck, and she knows that they're running out of options. Checking and rechecking times and dates is not her idea of fun. She would have liked to have gone out and followed Omar. Adam had insisted that Jo be the one to go.

_She needs to learn._

Ros isn't sure about Adam's judgement. She acquiesces is some respects: Jo _does _need to learn. Whether or not the middle of a national emergency is the time? She's not sure. She remembers her own learning curve and thinks, sadly, that Jo still has so much to learn, so much pain to conquer.

She shakes her head to draw herself out of her memories and back to reality. Now is not the time for a jaunt down memory lane.

Malcolm is humming softly behind her. She can't quite pick out the tune, but she's relatively sure it's nothing that has even approached the top 20 in the past 50 years.

She smiles to herself and continues on with her work. She can't allow herself to rest until this is over.

--

Jo's been watching the flat for what seems like forever. She looks at her watch. 1:24pm. She knows that if Kayla was the third sister to die then they can expect an attack in less than two hours. She also knows that they have everything to lose in this operation.

All the same, she's starting to lose focus. She thinks about her mother and her home. She thinks about her career as a journalist and what she gave up to do this job. She thinks about her friends. About how they have no idea who she is anymore. She never lets on, but it makes her sad. She's not sure _she_ knows quite who she is anymore. It's an uncomfortable feeling.

She looks up at the sound of a door banging shut, a sound louder than the rustle of leaves or the whip of the wind. Omar is leaving the flat, hood lowered for once. Grim determination floods his face, his eyes open, his demeanour influenced by some powerful knowledge that gives him purpose. Jo doesn't bother with procedure and calls Adam.

"Omar's leaving. He looks as though…" Jo trails off and swears loudly. She's just noticed something.

"Adam he's wearing a parka jacket, he's holding it closed. He wasn't wearing it when he went in and wasn't carrying a bag."

The only sound on the other end of the line is swearing that mimics her own.

Harry cuts in, only a slight shake present in his voice.

"Jo, tail him closely. We're sending in armed backup. He won't get away with this. Not this time. Not again."

--

"Do we presume that the attack will take place at 3:14pm?"

"I'm chasing the records but we're getting nowhere. They keep assuring us that they are on their way, but nothing's happening."

"Then we get more persuasive. We're not above threats, Ruth."

Ruth keeps quiet. It's an unfortunate truth about the world of intelligence. Sinking as low as those you are employed to watch is not unheard of.

"We follow Omar and deal with him before he can do any damage."

"What if we're wrong?" Zaf has become more and more uncertain since Ali's betrayal. "What if Omar has nothing to do with it?"

"Ruth's investigations into Number 112, Marshall Estate have yielded some results. The flat is rented by a Sharaf Hassan, however, no one under that name exists in the United Kingdom, it's an alias."

"They've got the same initials. Is that evidence enough for us?"

"It'll have to do. It all fits with Kayla being the third sister. Terror levels throughout the country have been set to critical. Our immediate concern in Omar and his actions in the next couple of hours."

"And if he's a decoy?" When Zaf speaks his voice is coloured with melancholy tint.

"Then we've made a grave error. However, all the evidence points in the other direction, don't you think?" Harry is as steady in his tone as ever.

Silence is the sign of agreement. They know that there is little else that they can do.

Ros is the first one to break the stillness.

"How long do we wait before we take him out?"

"What?"

"Do we do it straight away? Or do we let him take us to the target?"

Harry cocks his head to one side and thinks carefully. If he was completely honest, this hadn't actually occurred to him.

"It would be risky."

"When is our job ever without risk?"

"The risk in question isn't always hundreds of innocent lives, however."

"True. But that doesn't change the fact that we have a choice to make. Letting him get a little closer to his goal could save hundreds more lives."

Harry straightens up. Eyes grim but confidant.

He's made his choice.

--

Talal Omar doesn't usually get scared. His mother always said he was the bravest two year old she'd ever seen.

She was killed in Baghdad in 2004.

The idea of his mother as nothing more than inanimate corpse frightens him. That someone so alive could ever be so still.

He's not scared now. He knows that the mission is to avenge one dead girl. He also knows that in the process thousands of others will also be avenged. That doesn't frighten him at all. He's never been more at peace than he is now. Every step is a step closer to his mother. Looking back is the last thing that he wants to do.

2:53pm.

_Minutes, mother. In mere minutes I will return to you._

--

Jo walks a little quicker. They entered the city centre a while ago, dodging and weaving in and out of side streets. He hasn't noticed her. She's done well; keeping just far back enough blend in, changing her coat every half an hour as Adam had suggested.

He seems more hurried now, more excited. They must be close. Adam's been radioing in every few minutes checking she's alright, that she knows what she's doing. Zaf and a few dozen armed officers from Special Branch are on their way, following the tracker attached to a badge on her t-shirt.

She hopes that this operation can be resolved without too much trouble. A shooting in a public place is all that they need right now.

She looks up to assess her location. Her heart sinks. Omar has come to a halt and is leaning against some railings. From behind the railings a bell rings. A few hundred children come streaming out of the doors, running to their parents or grabbing footballs.

She closes her eyes and wishes that she hadn't seen it.

Her heart sinks a little lower.

--

"Jo's just called in. Omar is loitering outside St Helena Primary School." Malcolm can't keep the fear from his voice. The death of the innocent was bad enough. The death of innocent children was worse. He remembers that Colin always used to talk about that school. He has a niece there; eight years old, dark hair. Inside his head he vows to do whatever he can to protect that school. He's no action man, but if he can do anything, he will.

"A school! How can he do this?"

"A child for a child?"

Not for the first time is there silence on the Grid. But this one is sharper, the 'cut it with a knife' metaphor doesn't seem appropriate but Malcolm knows that for once its use would be justified.

"We have to stop this, Harry." Malcolm knows that the idea of two hundred dead children tugs harder at Ruth's heartstrings than anything else ever could. Except, perhaps, the death or disappearance of Harry. Malcolm allows himself a small smile. Zaf's running a book. It's only Harry and Ruth themselves that are so blind they can't see what's right before their eyes.

"We will. We've got the target and it's nine minutes past three. The attack to avenge Kayla Hadad will not be successful."

A buzz emits from the communication system.

"In range, awaiting order, Alpha One."

Adam draws breath.

"Take the shot."

--

The screaming is intolerable but Jo can't help but feel glad that the screams haven't been silenced. Scared and shaken is always preferable to dead. The children cling to their mothers, who cling to each other. Special Branch's aim was good: Omar lies motionless by the railings, his blood staining the pavement, his bomb untouched. Untouched but still alive. She's been close to it and it looks completely harmless. Ticking is the symbol of old technology and has no place in this new, terrifying world.

_The clock inside the crocodile. Tick, tick, tick._

Adam has assured her that someone is on the way to deactivate the device. He's assured her that she's done well. She can't help but feel like a child. She watches the little girls cry into their mother's shirts. She can't help but wish her own mother could understand more about the pain she lives with everyday.

--

Harry is irate. Now that the immediate threat has been overcome, he allows himself to be swallowed up by anger at the Iraqi Government.

"What is taking them so long? Faxing over a couple of files is hardly difficult, yet they're going on about it like it's neuroscience!"

"There's nothing we can do, Harry. Not unless you want us to fly out there and stand over them, tapping our watches until they've done it."

Harry doesn't reply. Adam's words might be the truth but he sees no need for sarcasm.

Malcolm stands by Ruth, saying nothing. His relief stretches further than duty, he's happy for that dark-haired little girl. He glances at Ruth who, as always, makes the peace.

"I'll get onto them again."

Smiles flash in her direction. Everyone is grateful for a moment of harmony. Division in the ranks never did anyone any good.

"When does Jo get back?" Zaf's concerns lie with the missing member of the team.

"In a few minutes. When she gets here take her home. Two attacks remain and we need everyone operating to their full potential."

Two more attacks and they're still fumbling in the dark for clues. Zaf can't shake the feeling that they just got lucky.

And luck has the annoying tendency of running out.

--

Ros sits at her desk. She Adam are the only ones around. Harry's meeting with Juliet. Zaf and Jo and Malcolm and Ruth have all been ordered home to rest. Once again, she has remained behind. She never could sleep in the middle of an ongoing crisis. It's the reason she was so successful in Tehran when she worked for MI6. That, and an emotional detachment. She's not so sure that she's as impassive anymore. The unnecessary death of Leigh Bennett a few weeks ago got to her more than she let on.

She senses Adam at her shoulder and turns her head. He's smiling.

"I thought that order was that we should all get some rest."

"And I see that you took that advice, just as I did." Her sarcasm isn't meant to be malicious and Adam doesn't take it as such.

"Any communication from Hadad? I expect he's not best pleased."

"Not yet. But I should imagine it won't be long before our lyrical extremist picks up his pen."

A comfortable silence settles over them for a moment. Ros breaks it.

"Do you think that he'll try again to avenge Kayla?"

"I doubt it. I think he'll continue on with his mission. There are two more girls, after all." Ros isn't sure whether to consider this comment optimistic or pessimistic. The lines are so blurred, she's not sure she can even read the writing anymore.

"They must have been pretty special, these girls."

"Doesn't everyone think their sisters are special?"

"I don't know. I don't have any." Adam isn't sad. He's curious about where they might go with this.

"I do. I don't see her anymore, haven't for years. I was 'daddy's little girl' through and through and she couldn't stand it. Neither can I, in the light of what happened." Ros sounds bitter and Adam wishes, not for the first time that he could make it better. He senses that the nerve is still raw.

He begins to say something but they are interrupted by the fax machine. She breaks the gaze they had been maintaining, to look at it.

"The files from Baghdad?"

Adam walks over to the machine and picks up a single sheet of paper. He reads it, says nothing and then walks over to Ros. He places the sheet in front of her and she looks down.

_Take comfort in your victory, it will not last. Her time is gone now. Gone forever. To think that she adored children, perhaps she would be pleased. Pretty maids all in a row, safe and sound in their beds. Two are left now, two pretty girls. As the sun sets once again over this living hell, my days draw to a close._

"He won't stop at anything, will he?"

Adam doesn't answer. His eyes say it all.

--

If Juliet could pace up and down the room, she would. She tries, for the thousandth time today, to move her legs, but she knows she tries in vain. She sees that Harry has noticed the uncomfortable expression on her face, but dismisses his words of sympathy.

"Don't say it, Harry. I don't want to hear it."

He stops, mouth open. He closes it. Juliet would smile if times were better. She's always liked Harry, his quirks and sense of duty. Even if she knows that an old spark can never return, she enjoys his friendship.

"Have you any further leads on the remaining attacks?"

"Nothing, as yet."

"You still don't know where they will take place?"

"Not a clue."

He's speaking in short sentences, without idioms or metaphors. Juliet knows that he must be tired.

"Have the Iraqi Government sent you the files?"

"No. Juliet, as much as I dislike seeking favours from our illustrious Government, I was wondering…"

"If I could do something to speed up the process."

"Well, yes. We need information, and fast."

Juliet smiles to set him at ease.

"It's done."

"Thank you." He is sincere in his gratitude. Juliet smiles again. If only all Government communication could be this civil.

--

Dusk is settling, once again, over the estate and as he looks out of windows he sees victory. He doesn't allow himself to see failure, he is angry beyond measure that Kayla could not be avenged, but he doesn't show it. His other angels need him now.

The mass of wires and bolts on the table before him has decreased in size over the past few hours. He remembers Talal's unwavering loyalty. He shakes his head in shame. Talal deserved to be a martyr, not mannequin for MI5 target practice.

He prays, silently, for Talal, before turning his mind to happier things. Some say that vengeance is bitter. He can only taste sweetness, like the sunrise over Baghdad or the smiles of a dark haired girl on her birthday.

He smiles himself. This time tomorrow he will have cast off this sickly skin and rejoined them.

Two to go.

_Take comfort in your victory, it will not last._


	4. Chapter Four : Arshia

Once again, I want to thank you all for your brilliant reviews: I'm really grateful for your comments. I'm sorry that there has been a bit of a delay in posting this part (I've been a bit busy) and hope that it lives up to the rest because I found this chapter particularly difficult to write. Luckily I'm almost sure now about how this story will finish, so hopefully the next (and final) chapter will work out a little better.

**Further Disclaimer : **I do not own the line from 'Romeo and Juliet', or phrase that uses the title of the Queen song, 'Another One Bites the Dust'.

* * *

The files still haven't materialised. Harry wonders whether they really are having difficulties, or whether they just don't want to help. You can never be sure whom it is you're talking to at the Iraqi Government: one minute an overenthusiastic, americanised politician, the next a fierce man of no obvious affiliation. And in the murky waters of terrorism having no affiliation usually means you have a hidden one. Harry knows it's these slippery characters you have to be wary of.

He's been sitting by the fax machine for twenty minutes. Still nothing. He sighs and thinks that Britain really is losing her control, her international authority. He thinks about the glorified 'War on Terror', about the lives lost to maintain the cause. The acknowledged and the unacknowledged, soldiers and spies lain beside one another.

_Another one bites the dust. Another man down._

He knows it's defeatist to think this way. He can't help it; he's tiring of this fight. This eternal conflict. He thinks again about the steadily waning power commanded by Britain. He wonders how they can ever win such a war, when the machine is tiring.

--

Ros doesn't usually let negativity colour her thoughts. She likes to think that she can see the best in people, even if other people rarely look for the best in her. She knows that it's her own fault; she puts up the barriers, closes the blinds, turns out the lights. That's what gives her an air of coolness, of detachment.

_The Ice Queen._

She sometimes wishes that she could talk to someone. Anyone. But she doesn't cope well with emotion. Her breakdown in front of Adam was the first time she'd cried in front of anyone else for years. She never cries because it gives them ammunition. 'Them' being the faceless, shapeless bullies in her mind, and the more solid ones too. The real ones that started the whole thing off.

_You're not my friend anymore._

The coolness is a façade. It's a coping mechanism. Always has been.

The telephone rings and she answers it without thinking. As she speaks her mind is still lost in the mysteries of long ago.

"Myers."

"Just calling in to report that, yet again, nothing seems to be happening." Adam's voice is clear on the other end.

"No visitors?"

"Nothing."

He's outside Hadad's flat, Number 112. They're keeping Hadad under covert surveillance. It was suggested that they could just bring him in. She prefers that idea. She needs to feel like she's doing something. But they know that Hadad won't be broken easily and that his men probably already have their marching orders. That even torture would be futile.

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing."

Ros is frustrated. It's been well over 24 hours since the first bomb and they still have nothing concrete to go on. None of their assets are being any help, and in any case, each asset is having to be reviewed and monitored in the wake of Ali Mahmad's betrayal. Once an asset is turned they aren't supposed to turn back. Water stained with blood can never be clear again.

"Are you still there?" Concern creeps into Adam's voice. She's grateful for it.

"Yes, sorry. Is there anything else?"

"No…" The unease in his voice doesn't waver. "Are you sure you're OK?"

Ros smiles again. It's nice to know that someone cares.

"Fine. I'll see you later."

She puts the phone down. The smile doesn't fade.

--

"Alright. We've been the target of three attacks, two successful, with a further two to follow."

Ruth runs the list over in her mind.

Amira Hadad. 11:24am. Princess Court.

Rawiya Hadad. 5:58am. The London Times HQ.

Kayla Hadad. 3:14pm. St Helena Primary School.

They're still looking for the link. It's clearly getting to Harry that they can't figure it out. Ruth feels sympathy wash over her. She doesn't like seeing him sad.

"With no information on the fifth sister, we're going ahead with the expectation that the next attack will take place at 9:04pm and that's barely four hours away." Harry says this in a tone of utter resignation.

Adam speaks before anyone can say anything even less encouraging. "What do we know about the sister?"

Ruth's mind is dragged back to the matter at hand. Solid fact is her area of expertise. She finds that facts are oddly comforting, like red shoes or white lace or oranges at Christmas.

"Arshia Hadad, killed 9:04pm, November 12th 2003 in a bomb blast in urban Basra. It killed two American soldiers and at least twelve Iraqi citizens. No one ever claimed credit for the attack."

An audible sigh echoes around the table. Four hours isn't long enough, and they know it.

--

Jo is tired, even though she knows she's had more sleep than anyone else in the building. Harry hasn't been home since the first bomb, she doesn't think that Ros has slept at all and Adam's eyes are oddly unfocused, as though he might be losing the battle against extreme fatigue.

"Still waiting?" Zaf's pleasant tones interrupt her thoughts.

She answers with a glance. She's sitting by the telephone willing it to ring. It appears that even Juliet's government powers and glacial manner can't get results from the Iraqi Government. Jo thinks gloomily that if Juliet can't do it, no one can.

"Are you alright?"

It's a common question. She's been asked it more times in the last 24 hours than she's had haircuts. Almost. She fingers her blond bob.

"As fine as it is possible to be under the circumstances."

Zaf smiles a little. His mouth curves but his eyes can't quite match it. He's too tired.

"Good."

"You?" Jo returns the question but receives no answer.

"Meeting. Now."

Harry cuts off the words that sit half formed in Zaf's mouth. His steely stare indicates that this is serious. Jo's heart jumps a little. Is it too much to hope that they might be getting somewhere?

--

A stunned, suffocating silence sinks over the room. Malcolm isn't sure he had ever seen Adam Carter surrender to silence before. He finds the lack of shouting quite unnerving.

"It's the _names_?" Zaf sounds as though can scarcely believe what he's hearing. "It's not places or political targets or religious motives, it's _names_?"

"We can't be sure, of course." Even in the wake of a major new lead Harry doesn't sound any less grim.

"It makes sense, though, in a warped way." Malcolm can tell that Jo has latched onto this new theory. He knows that she's looking towards the end of the operation, the end of the onslaught. He hopes that this really is the end, for her sake.

He looks again at the words stamped across the screen.

AMIRA_ (princess)_

RAWIYA_ (storyteller)_

KAYLA_ (wise child)_

ARSHIA_ (divine)_

Malcolm closes his eyes, attempting to silence the buzzing inside his head.

_The meaning of the name leads us to the location of the attack._

It sounds to him like one of Colin's puzzles. Ruth had uncovered it. Malcolm knows that Colin would have been proud of her. So he smiles, shows the pride that his fallen comrade isn't here to bestow.

_Princess. Noun. 5, a woman considered to have the qualities or characteristics of a princess. Princess Court, London._

Obvious enough, or so Malcolm thinks. He prefers the next few clues: despite all the horror, all the tragedy, he has always loved a riddle.

_Storyteller. Noun. 1, a person who tells or writes stories or anecdotes. 3, a euphemism or child's word for 'a liar'. The London Times HQ, London._

Malcolm thinks that this is clever. Both terrorists and innocents alike attack newspapers with such barbs as 'liar' and 'fabricator'. In this modern climate it doesn't seem inappropriate. They've had enough dealings with dodgy journalists for Malcolm to know that newspapers rarely print the truth.

_Wise Child. Child. Noun. 1, b, a person who has not attained maturity or the legal age of majority. Wise. Adjective. 4, having knowledge or information as to facts, circumstance etc. St Helena Primary School, London._

A school. Malcolm thinks that this is disgustingly predictable, done so many times before by desperate men sinking to desperate depths. Black humour seeps into him as he considers that despite the act itself being nauseating, it would successfully wipe out so many future politicians. The joke becomes even sicker as Malcolm realises that this might not be such a bad thing.

_Divine. Adjective. 1, of or pertaining to a god. Location unknown._

Location unknown. Malcolm, however, is fairly sure that he knows what the location is. He thinks that if it's not a church he'll eat his own silk necktie. The one that he particularly likes. The one he only wears for special occasions or chess club meetings.

"The whole country is still on high alert, but I think it's safe to say that Hadad will limit his attacks to London."

Safe to say.

Malcolm isn't sure that the expression is quite appropriate.

"So what, we put protection on every church in the London area?" Adam is slightly sarcastic, but nevertheless he makes a serious point.

"We could bring in Hadad. Coax it out of him?" Ros' eyes glitter a little as she says this. Malcolm knows it's not maliciousness but a longing for a good game. No one beats Ros when it comes to power play.

"No. He won't say anything and his men will swagger to their 'glorious' deaths anyway." Bitterness seeps once again into Malcolm's tone. They have just two hours left, no time to send out troops, en masse. In any case, their presence might just increase the casualty rate.

"We are still watching him, right?" Jo's eyelids flutter with uncertainty.

"Of course. Special Branch has taken over for a while."

On any other day a jibe would have followed this statement. Something about lack of capability and morals. Malcolm knows that today is not the time for petty jokes.

"We watch. We watch Hadad and his associates. We listen for chatter and we get on to the Iraqi Government again. I want those files in this office before another hundred British lives are lost."

The room clears and Malcolm is left alone.

_What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet._

As sweet as slaughter?

--

The flat is cold and dark and he knows that soon the silence will be soaked up with the sound of screaming.

He looks out of the window. He sees the car of non-descript colour and design faintly illuminated by the flicking light of a street lamp. He knows they're watching him. He doesn't care. The very fact that they're watching him means that they know nothing.

His gaze is drawn back to the table. He sees only one shadow, only one device. He smiles and thinks of his 'watchers'. They won't see anything here for a good few hours yet.

--

Adam isn't sure that he can make it through the next few hours. 7:29pm. He doesn't think that he's ever felt so helpless.

His mind drifts to Ali Mahmad and the reason for his crossings and double crossings. Why would anyone betray the cause, then die for it? He's reasonably sure that it wasn't a punishment from Hadad: the CCTV shows not a flicker of regret or fear on Mahmad's face, and Hadad's poetic messages have been clear of references to traitors.

He looks to the computer screen and the results of his search flash up with the stark efficiency that is common to the security services.

Ali Iyad Christopher Mahmad. 28. Christian, with known connections to Islamic terrorists.

Christian?

Adam shakes his head, something about this doesn't make sense.

He looks to Zaf who is typing half-heartedly away on his own computer.

"Did you know that Mahmad was a Christian?"

Zaf considers this for a moment, clearly thinking as hard as he can, analysing every conversation, every gesture.

"He was born to a Christian father. That's all he ever said. He never mentioned whether he practised or not." Zaf looks uncomfortable. "I assumed he didn't… I mean a member of an Islamic terrorist cell?"

Adam's expression is sympathetic, designed to relieve Zaf of guilt. "I would have thought the same."

Silence settles for a few seconds before Adam pushes his chair away from the desk and rises. He walks to Harry's office. It might be nothing, but when they have so little, anything is preferable to complete ignorance.

7:34pm. So little time left.

--

Ros wants, more than ever before, to kick something. In this helpless state she feels like a child all over again pushed against the railings, nowhere to turn.

They've put extra protection on as many site of religious importance as they can, but deep inside she doubts that it will do any good. They can't protect every church in the city, if they're even correct in their hunch, if they're even right about which sister comes next.

Her own father was a Christian. A God-fearing man. She never felt the great connection herself, the songs were decorative without being meaningful, the sermons well worded but not instructive.

She does feel fear, though. Fear that a faith that holds up the country even in times of great tragedy might fall with a single shot to the heart. The collapse of religion is one thing. The collapse of faith itself, quite another.

--

Ruth accepts that she can do nothing about the imminent attack. It doesn't make it better, doesn't make it go away; the bomb still ticks on silently in the corner. The silent elephant in the room. But she works on anyway, looking into Mahmad for Adam. She smiles at the memory of the reference given by GCHQ when she transferred.

_Dependable._

The memory reminds her of a time when she was merely an outsider, looking in on the fight against terrorism. That blissful time when she was not a part of this seems so long ago. A time before bombs and chemicals and statistics. Before casualties and the corpses of friends. Before Malcolm and Danny and Adam and Sam and Tom… and Harry. As if drawn magnetically to her side by her thoughts, Harry appears at her shoulder. Ruth turns and smiles.

"Are you alright?"

She smiles, flattered at the question.

"Fine. You?"

A look of concern flashes between them. A whisper of flirtation.

He answers with only a faint smile and allows Ruth to control the topic of conversation with her usual care.

"Will we be able to beat this?"

"The next attack? Or the attacker in general? Specificity Ruth, is the key to communication."

He isn't cross or demeaning, rather playful and kindly. He is rewarded with a flush of pink on Ruth's cheeks, inside she chastises herself for not being in control.

"The next attack."

All airs of mischievousness forgotten, Harry delivers his reply in a sombre voice. Ruth feels her heart sink even before he finishes.

"I don't know."

She looks down at her watch. Half past eight. Her heart rises into her throat. There's never enough time.

She looks to Harry whose eyes are closing in something that might be bitter acceptance.

There's never enough time.

--

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

9:02pm

He turns once again to the window, pulling the blind discreetly to the side, checking that the watching, waiting men outside are still there. He sees one of them pick up the radio. He watches the communication but cannot hear the words. The man's mouth moves and without sound he looks like a mute child testing the muscles of the mouth.

He turns back again and sinks into a chair.

9:03pm

_Oh sister, it will not be long._

He is barely half a mile from the site of the attack. He knows that he will hear the blast. The blast and the screaming that he knows will ensue. He thinks of his soldier, marching to his death and waving the banner for Islam.

9:04pm

He closes his eyes in bliss, heart thundering.

It skips a beat.

The silence remains unbroken.

--

"Any reports yet?" Adam is dejected. He knows that if Arshia was the fourth sister to die, and they have been forced to assume as much, then they cannot have been successful in preventing yet more destruction. Another heap of dead civilians to break the already exhausted hearts of the British public.

"Nothing. Which is odd really." Malcolm speaks with uncertainty.

Adam ponders this. He wishes that someone had something encouraging to say. He is grateful when the stillness is interrupted by the phone ringing. Harry picks it up.

"Yes?"

The look on his face is indecipherable.

"Really? Yes. Thank you."

He turns back to the team and Adam's heart starts to beat a little faster.

"They found the bomber. He wasn't successful."

Adam sees Jo's eyes light up. "We stopped him?"

"No. His device didn't activate. Special Branch are bringing him in for questioning."

Adam can't believe it. Everyone feels able to smile again, even if they know that these dark, troubled times are not yet over. He flashes a smile at Ros and a similar demonstration of good feeling brightens her features in return. One thing about being an officer of the British Security Services: when you have something to celebrate, however insignificant, you celebrate it.

--

Hot, red, all-consuming anger fills his eyes, leaks from them in salty tears that stain his face with misery.

_Not another. Not again._

The crimson flashes that he sees do nothing but remind him of the blood that pumps within the veins of the innocent. Blood that should have been spilled in a magnificent explosion of grief.

His blurred stare turns on the one remaining device and he forces his both his vision and his mind to clear.

All can be redeemed with one more, one last beautiful blast.

--

Zaf is grateful that the last few hours are finally over. Over without major national catastrophe. The fax machine beeps and he stands to collect the paper it expels, already knowing what it is and where it came from.

His eyes scan the words, reading them through, over and over again. He sighs softly and shuts his eyes in an effort to forget everything that he has seen in the past day or so. It doesn't work and he finds his thoughts even more troubling that reality, so he returns his gaze to the paper.

_Another sister left to forever drown in old tears. Another rose doomed to wilt and fade away. One more who cannot enjoy exquisite destruction in her name. Once you were lucky, once I have been blind. However, I am not so consumed by anger as to forget my purpose. The final act is yet to come._

Zaf can almost taste the emotion in the words. Some tiny part of him feels sorry for this man, sorry for his suffering. He has sisters. The thought that someone might touch them makes his stomach tighten and his fists curl. He knows that vengeance is an ever-evolving, chameleon-like evil that can affect even the noblest of men. He knows that no one can claim to represent the moral absolute. The reason being simple: humanity doesn't allow it.

He moves away to deliver the latest message to the rest of the team. Now is not the time for philosophy.

--

"The attack was directed at the Church of St John. A small building, but buried in labyrinthine streets packed with houses and flats. It would have killed a lot of innocent people."

The consequences of a blast in such a densely populated area are almost unimaginable. Or, Ruth thinks, they would be if it weren't for the fact that she's seen it too many times before.

"An Islamic attack on a place Christian worship. To British eyes that's an attack on Christianity itself. It would have destroyed any hopes of peace."

Ruth doesn't speak. It seems that no one else can think of anything to say either. The silence says more than words and so Ros, perhaps with even more tact than usual, changes the subject.

"What do we do now?"

Ruth turns as Harry takes control of the conversation with determination. "We throw all our energies into getting those files from the Iraqi Government. We've been distracted up until now, with more pressing matters and we've been too lenient. Not anymore."

His word is final and they scatter to do his bidding. In times of crisis a strong leader is the only thing to get them through.

_The final act is yet to come._


	5. Chapter Five : Nuha

This is the final chapter of this story, a story that I have really enjoyed writing. I am utterly grateful to those of you who took the time to review - I really appreciate it, thank you. I hope that this chapter is a fitting end to the story - it's the chapter that I have had the most difficulty writing. I also hope that all the plot ends have been tied up (I tried my best to do so, but you never know!).

**Further Disclaimer: **Just as I do not own the characters of Spooks, I do not own the plot details from Spooks 3x09 or the line from the poem 'Havisham' by Carol Ann Duffy.

This is dedicated to anyone who, at any point, left a review. Enjoy!

* * *

He pulls the jacket on, the sleeves slip over his hands, the cool fabric welcome against his skin, flushed as his pulse races with longing. 

_Not yet._

He knows that trying it on will only worsen the wait. He can't help himself. The weight on his chest is comforting, the plastic pressing on his heart. He is grateful for the relief that this final blast will bring.

_Not yet._

His heart aches under the weight of the anger that has seeped into it like tar, thick and black and suffocating. His own ignorance angers him more than anything else. How could he not have noticed that one of his soldiers was sinking in doubt? He wonders how he could have been so blind after he had planned everything else so carefully: the locations, the times, the change of methods. He draws breath and chastises himself for getting lost in the past. The future is all that is left now. And his future will soon be splintered into a million glittering memories.

_Not yet._

--

"It seems that Ali Mahmad knew what he was doing all along."

Adam delivers his statement with little emotion, but Zaf can see the fatigue that eats at his colleague from the inside.

"He kept us informed in the hope that we would stop Hadad in time to protect the church. When we were unable to do so he tampered with the device. Stopped the attack the only way he knew how."

Adam looks to Zaf for an answer. Zaf sighs as he tries to give him one.

"He was so brave."

Adam's mouth opens, as if to enquire about his friend's state of mind. Zaf stops him with a more coherent reply.

"We were unable to stop Hadad. I know that we should feel no remorse for Mahmad, but our failings are highlighted all the same. We let our country down, the very thing that we swore to protect. Are we going to lose this, Adam?"

Zaf knows that he sounds like a petulant child and he is disgusted with himself. It doesn't make his question any less crucial.

Adam is pragmatic, stern in his reply.

"Of course not."

He rises and stalks away from his desk in the direction of the pods. Zaf knows that everyone could do with some air right now, a time to think and regroup. They've been unbelievably lucky so far: one blast thwarted by chance, by being in the right place at the right time, another by the sheer courage of a desperate man. He knows that one more bomb remains, and he knows that they don't know how to stop it.

Midnight descends on London and Zaf wonders when the next blast will take place. How much time do they have left? It could be seconds or minutes or hours. They just don't know. And the ticking of that unseen clock scares him more than any visible weapon, more than any visual threat.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

--

Harry knows that they have only two options. One is to put all energies into forcing the Iraqi government to hand over the files on the fifth sister. He still wonders whether they are purposely hiding this information from him, or whether they really are just incompetent fools. Harry almost smiles as he makes a mental note to inform the American Embassy just how badly they're pulling the puppet strings these days.

The other option is to put all energies into tracing Hadad and interrogating his quivering minion. Harry remembers the look on the young man's face – clearly failure had not been on his agenda. Hadad himself had long gone from the flat when Special Branch had arrived to take a look. Harry considers this and isn't surprised – he wouldn't have stuck around either. He's reasonably sure that Hadad himself will be the one to detonate the final blast, all the clues from his messages point that way. His flowery communications read like lyrical suicide notes.

Harry swings from one option to the other. He wants to try both, but also reap optimum rewards.

It's complicated.

--

He looks to the clock. There are hours yet but impatience is beginning to take hold of his body, making his fingers twitch and his mind lose focus. He decides to prepare now, to prolong the delicious feeling of satisfied revenge. He'll take his time, meander through the city, wallow in his own thoughts. He laces his shoes. He takes one last look in the mirror. He reaches for his weapon and smiles.

_Not yet._

_--_

Jo watches as a young, broad man squirms before Ros' heart stopping stare. Harry's decision to split the team was welcome – Jo enjoys getting away from the hubbub of the Grid. She and Ros are here to make the failed bomber talk, to see if he knows anything. Jo thinks that Ros looks much more frightening, much more grown up in a suit that she does. Hers isn't as nicely cut at Ros', isn't as expensive. She watches as the man shrinks a little further into his chair. It's her cue. Enter 'good cop'.

The interrogation room is small and decorated in a harsh, military style. The panels of sheet metal on the walls do nothing to put the suspects at ease, but then, Jo thinks, that probably wasn't the main idea behind the decor. She and Ros sit on one side of the table, the squirming man on the other. Jo smiles. All part of the act. She pushes a clipboard across the polished surface, flicks a fountain pen in his general direction.

"Sign for you belongings, please."

When Special Branch had brought him in they had removed a couple of bits and pieces. Jo remembers an old penknife, a cheap watch and a tattered wallet being thrown into a Perspex box.

The man looks into her eyes. She senses his uncertainty.

"Sign for your belongings, please." She repeats the question with not a change in tone, but he sees something like anger stir inside her and reaches for the pen.

Jo remembers Fiona teaching her how to do this. She remembers how Fiona told her all about Adam and a man called Robert Morgan. She remembers that her respect and fear of Adam grew a little after that day. The number of things that could be done with a signature had made her mind spin. And she hadn't even learnt the worst of what went on in an interrogation cell at that point.

The man drops the pen and it is snatched away by Ros' waiting hands. She doesn't look at him or Jo, but stalks out, a look of calm confidence on her face. There is a reason that Ros is always 'bad cop'.

--

He is grateful for the bitter cold as he begins his journey. A journey that will take him to the edge of the universe and beyond. The rhythm of his footsteps mirrors the beating of his heart. He can only hear drums, calling him to march to the very end of his destiny.

_Not yet._

--

Adam is on the phone. Again. He doesn't much enjoy this aspect of the job, the endless paperwork, the filing and stamping and waiting around. But they need these files. After two minutes of ceaseless ringing someone materialises on the other end of the line.

"Yes?" The voice is heavily accented and sounds harassed.

"This is MI5, we would appreciate a progress report on the location of the files that we requested some hours ago." There is a slightly acerbic edge to his voice because he knows that politeness will get him nowhere - it's just protocol, but the man on the other end appears not to have the language skills to notice his sarcasm.

"As we have repeatedly told your officers, we are doing our best. We cannot drop all other matters to find a file."

"If it's as simple as finding a file then I should think that the job would be a remarkably quick one." Adam says this with an upper class accent. He might not enjoy paperwork, but he does enjoy acting.

As he delivers his line the voice on the other end becomes flustered, defensive.

"We are in a war zone! We have more important concerns!"

Adam is as calm as ever and pauses for a moment before delivering his reply.

"More important the huge loss of British lives that will turn our country from your cause and bring our soldiers running home?"

Silence meets this pronouncement. Adam knows that he has this man cornered.

"Fine. Expect delivery within the hour."

The line goes dead. Adam is hopeful, but not overly so. In this game nothing is predictable.

--

Everything else fades into insignificance as his eyes search out his prize. He sees it, no prettier than any other building in this cruel city, but reeking of infinite glory. This will make history in her name.

_Not yet._

--

Ros closes her eyes and frustration washes over her. She and Jo have got nowhere with the slimy, writhing little man still whimpering his prayers into the emptiness of the interrogation room. She's been forced to concede defeat – this man knows nothing that will be of any use to them. Clearly Hadad's soldiers are informed only of their own little parts in his grand, masterfully scripted play.

She reaches for her phone and dials a familiar number. It rings twice before being picked up. She smiles a little. Clearly Adam has nothing better to do than sit by the telephone.

"Hello?"

"It's me. How's it going with the files?"

"We're hopeful."

"That's all?" Ros was hoping for a little more than just hopeful. 'We've got them' would have been a more uplifting reply.

"Sadly, yes. You?"

"That's why I'm calling. This guy's just a soldier; he knows his orders and nothing more. I don't think we'll get anything of use from him."

Adam sighs. "Right. I'll tell Harry. What are you going to do with him?"

"Kill him slowly, eat the meat, and carve his bones into pretty little ornaments for my mantelpiece. What do you think I'm going to do with him?"

Ros can almost hear the smile in Adam's reply.

"Precisely that, actually."

A moment of glee is shared before things become serious again.

"I'll hand him over to the police. See if we can't give him a life sentence in a nice, cosy prison cell for attempted mass murder and acts of terrorism."

"Good."

Ros knows that Adam wants these puppets to pay as much as she does.

"Is Jo still with you?"

"Of course. A fun night out with Rosalind and now on her way back to Daddy."

"Daddy? I'm far to young!"

Ros raises her eyebrows even though Adam can't see her.

"It's a metaphor, Adam."

--

As he moves every closer to his target, he thinks about the people that will join him, albeit not by choice, in his magnificent crusade. Soon they will be in another world, in another language, another time. He knows it will be beautiful.

_Not yet._

--

Early morning is creeping in through the windows of Thames House, not that you would know it with the midwinter darkness still pressed against the glass. Ruth is downhearted that the failed terrorist has no useful information. She can feel herself beginning to give in to despair. She can see it in Harry too; can see the echoes of failure that haunt him.

The fax machine beeps and Ruth's heart jumps. They're not due another poem, unless another blast has failed, so she reaches for the paper with shaking hands. Could this finally be the file?

After a moment of indecisive refusal to look at the print before her, she drops her gaze to the paper.

_Name: Nuha Hadad_

_Age: 19_

_Year of Birth: 1984_

The usual bits and pieces of vital information. Ruth scans the page and sees an addition made in late 2003.

_Date of Death: November 29__th__ 2003_

That's nothing new. They knew that she was last to die. Ruth's eyes drop lower, searching for a cause of death.

She sees an amendment just below the date of death.

_Killed when rebels attacked a British-Iraqi police and military base._

Her heart throbs, of course it does, at the tragedy. But she can't see what she really wants, and that's a time of attack. Seeing nothing in the file she reaches for the computer mouse. A few clicks and a neat shortcut courtesy of Malcolm's computer hacking skills later, and she's found out all she needs to know.

_November 29__th__ 2003. 6:46am._

She looks to the clock. 5:53am.

Her heart sinks. She feels herself blinking back tears. Horror and frustration and tiredness are swirling inside her. Her face falls.

Harry walks up behind her, his features flicker with concern at her slumped form. Another spark. Another whisper.

_If only I could make it all better._

She feels his presence but doesn't turn around. When she turns, she'll have to deliver the bad news. She hears the pods whirr and knows without needing to look that Ros and Adam and Jo and Zaf and Malcolm will all be there, expectant looks on their faces. She can't do it. She doesn't turn around.

Harry is still there.

"Ruth?"

--

He's close now. The moment stretches before him, glittering with promise, radiant with vengeance. Utter absolution. He feels tears prick at the back of his eyes and allows them to fall freely into the abyss.

_Not yet._

--

The grid has never been more active than it is now. Senior officers and non-descript worker bees alike are rushing around, glued to their phones, fumbling with the papers in their hands. Colours flash past: the soft reds of Ruth's skirt; the charcoal grey of Harry's suit; the rough denim of Zaf and Jo; the classy, crisp whiteness of Ros' shirt. Adam is glad that in times of darkness he has this team, this family around him. Their heads are down; they're doing their jobs.

6:30am.

According to Malcolm, Nuha means 'intelligence'. They may have only had an hour but they've got teams outside every government office in London. They've made a little leap as to the possible locations of the attack, but, as Adam convinces himself, Hadad's tried schools and papers and streets and churches – there's nothing but government left. He sighs quietly. There's no way they won't see Hadad coming. They have officers everywhere on the ground. They have cameras and guns and grenades of their own. He smiles at Ros. They might actually pull this off.

--

His heart floods with emotion. So close. He feels his fingers move of their own volition. They know what to do. They slip over the fabric of his coat and find the zip. As he pulls the coat apart he relishes one last time in the clockwork simplicity of his mortal human form.

_Not yet._

--

Jo sits at the window and watches the cars and the people hurry by far below, desperate to get to work on time, croissants in hands, morning papers tucked away under arms or in handbags.

She stares around her own office. She sees Adam and Ros heads close in conversation. She sees Malcolm and Harry and Ruth staring at their monitors, Malcolm's mouth moving to offer some droll joke. She sees the void where Colin should have sat. She sees Zaf as he smiles into the telephone.

She's so grateful for them.

--

He draws breath. The air is so much sweeter now that he knows his time is up, the fierce glow of the fluorescent lights so much brighter. The dazzling world around him melting into opalescent whirlpools, the roar of the traffic descending into a low, resonant hum.

_Not yet._

--

Ros smiles a genuine smile as Adam turns from her and moves towards Harry. They've done all they can and all avenues are covered. It's almost over.

She looks around her and sees a group of people who are more like a family than a team of colleagues. Closer to her than her real family. She sees Adam and Harry finalising details, sharing a smile like father and son. She sees Zaf and Jo chatting together, utterly comfortable, but always careful to keep at least one eye on the CCTV feed. She sees Malcolm and Ruth and catches the end of Malcolm's cricketer joke. Again. The old ones are the best, after all.

Secretly, she's so grateful for them.

--

He reaches for the trigger, fingering the cool, hard metal. Sirens sound in the distance. On any other day, at any other time they would have frightened him. Now they merely spur him on.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

_I dare you._

_Not yet._

--

Adam walks away and Harry surveys his team. Malcolm, his loyal friend with a hidden wit. Rosalind and Zafar and Joanna and Adam, he feels so much responsibility for them, a fatherly concern in his manner. Ruth, whose unique, sparkling character makes the day flow a little easier. He surveys them and smiles. His kingdom. His soldiers. He smiles and they smile back. They make him proud.

He sends Jo down to the foyer to collect some files from Whitehall. She goes without question, without argument, without a word.

He's utterly grateful for them.

--

His eyes open for the final time, his gaze drawn to the world of chaos around him. He watches the people stumble by and a seething hatred is reborn in him. Let them fumble in the dark for answers. Let them spill each other's blood without a care. Let them sob with ignorant fear until their insides ache.

He knows his own truth. The light is on.

_Goodbye._

--

Tearing through the mess of glass and rubble and limp bodies, Zaf has only one thought in his mind. He's blocking out the shrill screams, the blaring sirens and the gentle creaking of a building about to crumble. He's blocking out the blood stains that spatter the remains of the marble floor, the bodies that lie like broken puppets, the colourless faces of the victims for whom the spark of life has not quite faded. He runs blindly through the chaos, ignoring the orders of his superiors, of the emergency services, of the wounded officers around him. He spots a flash of red, a shock of blond.

Jo.

--

They sit by the phone. Together. Silent. Hearts aching for it to ring. The room is cold and the silence deafening. Failure echoes in their ears. They cannot bear to look at one another and the tears fall steadily. The uncertainty is killing them.

Her limp, broken body. Her cool, white skin. Is there life in her yet?

_Don't think it's only the heart that b-b-b-breaks._

--

Ros isn't sure whether they've been waiting for minutes or hours or days. She can't look at anyone except Adam and when she looks at him all she can see is her own grief. Harry is nursing a scotch. It's the only movement in the room. It's a bare room, a temporary base that does nothing to allay their fears, does nothing to calm their emotions. Ros wants so badly to go home, but knows that when she gets there all she will find is emptiness and coldness and loneliness. She doesn't think that she can ever bear to be alone again.

Jo had, no _has,_ so much more to offer, Ros is sure of it. She remembers the little girl that could be seen through Jo's eyes, the little girl that ruled her heart. Secretly she longed to be as innocent and childlike as Jo was. Maybe if she could become that little girl again she could cry for Jo. The adult that won't relinquish control over Ros' heart won't let the tears fall. Quite.

Adam sees the glimmer of emotion there and puts his arms around her. She falls into him and, for once, doesn't care that she might look weak. Grief and anxiety are too much to suffer alone, too much to suffer in silence.

She has to keep her faith in Jo. It's not over yet.

--

Zaf hasn't said a word since the ambulance dragged her away. The sirens and flashes from cameras and screams were too much for him. Adam had pulled him away, sat him down, asked him to talk. He hadn't. He couldn't.

Zaf knows that he shouldn't lose hope. He knows that he should keep the fire alive.

He remembers her smile and her laugh. Remembers the time that she showed him the pictures of her family, of her friends. How he had laughed at the picture of her from her primary school play.

_Joanna Portman … Camel #1_

At the memory he can't help but smile. Smiling makes the pain worse.

He looks to the telephone willing it to ring, willing someone on the other end to tell him that she's going to be alright. Only silence meets his desperate ears. The tears return, hot and salty, sliding down his cheeks.

Ruth puts a hand on his shoulder.

Adam hold Ros in his arms.

Malcolm fiddles with a cufflink.

Harry takes a swig of scotch.

_A minute passes._

The phone rings.

--

A week later and the media frenzy rages on. The public call for changes in government, in policy, in security. The alert levels are lower. Lives begin to rebuild, a million phoenixes rising from blood-soaked ashes. The bereaved bury their dead.

Six figures stare into the ground.

_The bereaved bury their dead._

Tears fall and voices break as one by one they pay their last respects. A white rose. A smiling photograph. A pink teddy bear on the end of a silver chain.

_It's what she would have wanted._

They watch her family leave, supporting each other, standing strong. The tears fall a little faster.

_Joanna Portman. Beloved daughter, sister, friend._

They look down. As earth is piled over her they hold their breath. They are willing this to be a nightmare, willing it to be unreal.

_All she ever wanted was to save the world._

One man's grief splintered into a quest that broke the hearts of a nation. How can one man seek to cause so much sorrow? The communication had arrived minutes after the blast. The blast that they were prepared to take anywhere other than on their own territory.

_And so it is over. Five girls, five heart, three breathtaking blasts. Your successes have not tarnished my mission. Let your people rebuild. Let your hearts mend. Take comfort in the fact that you have redeemed yourself in the spilling of blood. This is absolution. Revel in it. The sun will still rise and the birds will still sing. Life goes on._

--

They walk away and don't look back. They know that they'll break if they do. Life will return to normal, bombs and guns and paperwork. They know it won't be the same without her.

But they stand together determined to fight on. The terrorists cannot be allowed to win. For her sake they will not give in.

_Life goes on._

--

**The End.**


End file.
